


a wound after a bite

by livepoultryfreshkilled



Series: honey, if this plane goes down, i don't even want a parachute [4]
Category: Succession (TV 2018)
Genre: ADHD Siobhan "Shiv" Roy, BPD Siobhan "Shiv" Roy, Bisexual Siobhan "Shiv" Roy, Bisexual Tom Wambsgans, Character Study, F/M, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Post-Canon, Problems, Short Hair Shiv Roy, Therapy, Trans Tom Wambsgans, and she loves his goofy ass so much!, he loves her crazy ass so much, i am not kidding when i say this is for ME. these are MY parents, its not mentioned i just wanted u to know, just like every other damn thing i write, just. generally, she tries very hard, shiv attempts a coping mechanism, tom wambsgans on the get the roys therapy train too
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-08
Updated: 2020-08-08
Packaged: 2021-03-06 07:40:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25779847
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/livepoultryfreshkilled/pseuds/livepoultryfreshkilled
Summary: so you don't feel the bite / i don't feel it get worst / 'til you're talking in reverseoh, i am tryin' / oh, i am tryin' / you don't know how i'm tryin' / to be so good
Relationships: Siobhan "Shiv" Roy/Tom Wambsgans
Series: honey, if this plane goes down, i don't even want a parachute [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1842073
Comments: 10
Kudos: 21





	a wound after a bite

**Author's Note:**

> title & description from tryin' by shannon and the clams!

_ Dear Tom, _

_ No. That sounds like “Dear John,” and I’m not your war-torn wife telling you I’m leaving you for the mailman. This is so stupid. YOU’RE stupid, for thinking that making me talk to a fucking therapist was going to “fix” me or whatever the fuck you think is going to fucking happen from me doing these little fucking arts and crafts projects fuck you fuck you FUCK YOU!!!! FUCK  _

Shiv inhales sharply as she tears the paper, violently. She clenches her fists tighter when she realizes that she is, ironically, proving her therapist’s point about being  _ unnecessarily combative. _ She breathes in shakily. She does not have to fight Tom on this, she is not being punished. She repeats this in her head a few times, a mantra, a statement of fact, tapping her pen against a fresh sheet. She runs the nib aimlessly over the margins, making little stars and skulls and squares until she’s sure her face isn’t red anymore. Doodling is just another bad habit she keeps forgetting to break. Shiv exhales again, slower, trying to loosen her shoulders. She feels embarrassed for such a childish display of anger. She feels embarrassed even though she is alone in the apartment, doing something she chose to do.  _ No one likes a whiner, Siobhan. There’s no crying in baseball, Pinkie, just play the damn game.  _

_ Tom, _

_ Dr. Jímenez told me to write a letter telling you how much I appreciate you. This is it. Don't get weird about it.  _

_ Shiv _

Oh, _very_ nice, very impressive. _Hey, everyone, over here! Everybody, look at me!_ Look how much Shiv Roy doesn't care! I want the way I roll my eyes to hurt your feelings, I want you to feel lonely when I’m in the room, I want you to be so desperate for my approval that you will break your neck to make me smile. I’m not like those other girls, I don’t like movies with happy endings or love songs, I don’t like anything, so it doesn’t matter when you don’t like me. I’m like a man, with my big cold hands and big sharp teeth, I’m just like my father. I’m nothing like my mother. I’m my own person, I’m independent, I’ve got the biggest dick and the smallest heart so it doesn’t matter if you leave because I know everything in the world and you were stupid for trusting me in the first place. I hate Valentine’s Day, I hate myself, I hate my parents, I don’t believe in love or god or anyone, and I will cry and wear your shirt to bed every single night until you come back, even when I hate it because it smells like me and not you. Did you see me do that? Are you still looking?

_ My Darling, _

_ I’m so sorry that you fell in love with me. God knows what crime you committed in a past life to be in this situation. My deepest apologies from the depths of my soul, I hope you rue the day you met me you are such an asshole I am such an asshole stop being such an ASSHOLE _

When it came to writing, Shiv never hated it, but she never loved it either. She got good grades in English, but she never liked creative assignments. Shiv reads fiction when she is supposed to, the classics and the bestseller list and the things that will make her look and sound smarter than her brothers. Roys aren’t authors, or artists, or poets, because it only makes money if you’re exceptional at it, and, even then, you could still die poor. There’s no value in it, it’s unstable, it’s a worthless pastime for gay drug addicts who don’t have anything better to give to the world. It was too easy for her, too. Fake some emotion, throw in some flowery metaphors about life and death and love and the ocean, lie a little and really, that’s all art is. She entered a schoolwide writing contest in sophomore year of highschool, just for the college credit, and won. It wasn’t very hard, shallow trust fund babies don’t have a lot to write about. She mentioned it at the dinner table, because it didn’t matter. Roman was the only one who gave a shit. He was jealous, because he’s always jealous, the only time he knows what he wants is when someone else has it.  _ Nobody likes a showoff, Pinkie. _ She didn’t care. She threw away the certificate the day they gave it to her. She never liked participation trophies.

When she wrote that memo, she lied a little too much, pretended to have a conscience too hard, got lazy and decided to glide, so of course Logan and his boys had a field day. She doesn’t care about that, either. It was a fucking memo, and she doesn’t care if they laugh at her because she laughs at them, too. You learn from your mistakes, you don’t dwell. She doesn’t want to be a man.

The reason writing  _ this _ is so hard is because she is trying to be honest. She’s not sure if it’s successful, or possible, or marketable, but she is doing it anyways. She doesn’t really know if she is telling the truth, but she is trying not to lie.

_ Hey Tom, _

_ I don’t know what to tell you _

She dislikes it already, but she doesn’t throw it away. She remembers breathing exercises, but those make her angry, so she just looks at her pen and tries not to run away.

It’s been a little over two months since she started seeing Dr. Jímenez, who she refuses to call Sol to her face, solely because she asked her to. (Let me have this, I need to feel like I’m winning a little bit or I won’t play at all.) She has tried not to lie to her, and to tell her when she does. It has made Shiv hate her a little. When she told her that, it made Shiv hate her a little less.

It’s been a little over six months since Tom told her he was unhappy. Around the same time, Kendall did a very nice show of cutting their father’s head off and putting it on a stake. Someone should tell them that it’s getting old, this betrayal routine. No one’s falling for it, whatever it’s supposed to be, and she isn’t going to care when it blows up in either of their faces. Kendall’s pretty pathetic if he thinks that this fucked up mating dance makes him close with dad. She’s sad for him, really.

It’s been a little over four months since Shiv cut all her hair off, since Tom told her he would only move back in if she started seeing a therapist she actually talked to, instead of just parroting self-care jargon and smugly peppering in salacious highlights of her _ traumatic childhood _ just to make him squirm. It’s grown back, just enough to curl a little behind her ears and fall slightly into her eyes. He’s grown back, just enough to sleep in her,  _ their  _ bed, but she goes tense when she feels his weight next to her. She is not patient enough to wait the months that it will take to make her hair grow back. She tugs at it anyways, because it makes her feel better. She does not tug at Tom, because he is not hair. She can tell the difference between dead and alive.

_ Hey Tom, _

_ I don’t know what to tell you. I’m sorry that I’m mean to you. I like being with you, and I was sad when you left. I think I’m afraid of you. I don’t think I’m going to give you this one. I hope you know that when you see how sorry I am I am not being sorry for myself. I am not trying to be sorry for myself. I hope you still like me. I still like you _

She folds the paper in half, in half again, and again, until it is quite small. She unfolds it and tears it along the seams, methodically, and places the pieces into a neat pile. She has already made such a mess already, so careless, so angry.  _ If you act like a child, Siobhan, I am going to treat you like one. You don’t want that, do you? _

When Tom moved back in, he slept in the guest room. She felt guilty, because she had done the bad thing, so by all logic she should have been the one to act like a guest in their home. More than that, she felt afraid, because she knew that meant he was telling her  _ This is not permanent, Shiv, but it is not temporary. I  _ can  _ leave, but only if you make me. _ She was lonely, and she missed how he smelled, and she wanted him to hold her like he used to, and she wanted to be his little girl again. She was sorry, but they never had that conversation. 

She never felt like it was her bed, she’s never felt like any bed has been her bed, or anyone else’s. Not a pessimist, but a  _ realist:  _ I sleep  _ on  _ things, I’ve never been tucked in, blankets are only warm because they store body heat. _ Oh, poor me, an island unto herself, moored in thousand-thread-count sheets. _ Shiv Roy sleeps like there is someone watching her. There  _ is _ someone watching me, and it’s my fault; she is the voyeur and she is the victim, I am the intruder in my own home, standing over my own sleeping body with a knife. I am Norman Bates and I am Janet Leigh, naked in the shower and wearing my dead mother’s dress. Shiv dreams about stabbing herself in the heart, in the eye, in the neck, in the stomach, twisting the knife so I know she’ll suffer. Shiv Roy has wet dreams about murder-suicide-euthanasia, Shiv Roy has nightmares about having a child with her husband. 

When Tom slept next to her, she at least felt like she was sleeping  _ with _ someone, like there would be a witness to the crime, however traumatized they’d be afterwards. Now when he lies in her bed, he is no longer a man, he is a ball of colorful blown glass, and she has to lay very still or he will roll off and shatter and he will stop being pretty and start being sharp.  _ But he isn’t. _ He’s her husband, not a glass ball, and he is trying to help her. She is not in trouble. She is not being punished. She is not a good girl, or a bad girl, she is just an adult human being and she is going to learn how to be a person.

When they first moved in together, Tom always got up before her, no matter what day it was. He made coffee, and put a little sticky note on her mug. Just something silly, a dumb joke, a reminder for something she wanted to do later that he knew she didn’t think was important enough to put in her calendar, or just  _ GOOD MORNING, HONEYBADGER!!! HAVE A GREAT DAY!!!  _ in big, endearingly blocky handwriting. A little heart, or a smile, some doodle that made her expression go soft, until she caught herself.  _ The time we spend together is like a hot dog—I relish it! _ A pun so awful her laugh caught her off guard, the one she didn’t like, the one that was too loud. A nickname so bizarre she couldn’t help how her smile spread over her face.  _ Have a sweet day, my sweet potato! _ So painfully Tom, that accidental joy could happen to anyone.

Sometimes he left them on an empty mug, when he knew she’d have to rush out that morning and wouldn’t have time to drink coffee at home, just so she could see it. Just so she would know he was there. They always ended with “I love you.” She first thought of the addition like he was signing his name, like his identity was his devotion. Like he wasn’t a man, just a dedication, a pagan worshipping a golden calf before God struck him down.  _ Thou shalt not worship false gods, stupid, or don’t you know anything? I hope you see the holy wrath coming up behind you in my reflection.  _ But then he proved himself a person, someone she liked to hear talk as much as she liked to see listen, someone who loved her because he liked her, not because he needed her. So she wondered if he wrote it so routinely because he thought she needed the reminder, like she would forget that she was loved if he didn’t tell her every day. Like she had been so starved of it her whole life so he pitied her, a damaged memory that didn’t know she was beautiful.  _ I don’t need that charity, I don’t want it, I  _ hate  _ it, I can do things. I’m a real person and I will put my finger in your sad eyes.  _ But then he showed her he respected her, he knew she was sharp and strong and he admired it, without envy, just objective appreciation. She was his friend. He thought she was  _ cool.  _

But, even then, even before she learned to trust his affection, she never threw a single note out. Instead, she put them in a big ziploc bag that she kept in the closet. Not for sentimentality, of course. Just for evidence. When she did realize it, she was embarrassed at how long it took to crack the code, to figure out what he was  _ really _ saying, because he wasn’t really saying anything. He just loves her. He felt that way every single morning, so he told her. He probably didn’t even realize that he did it every time, or maybe he just didn’t care, because it was a very simple truth. That was all it was, no big secret, no hidden messages or trick questions. And the reason it took so long wasn’t because it was hard to believe he loved her, it was because it was hard to believe he didn’t have an ulterior motive. 

The notes were the hardest thing for her, maybe. When he went away on business trips, or she did, she knew he couldn’t leave a note on her mug, so that was fine. He sent a little good morning text, and it was okay, she knew he was still there. She had learned not to worry that his heart would get tired. But when he left, it wasn’t like that. She could try to pretend it was, but it wasn’t, because he wasn’t waiting at home. He was sleeping in an apartment in the Upper East Side, and he probably wasn’t dreaming about her.  _ Am I your nightmare, Tom? Am I the Wicked Witch? What are you more afraid of, my absence or my presence? Please don’t tell me. I don’t want to know. _

Her lowest moment, something she refused to tell Sol about, was two months after Tom had moved out. She couldn’t breathe, the apartment was a mess, and he took Mondale because he always loved Tom more anyways. She made her own coffee, but wouldn’t drink it out of the same mug. No one cleaned the apartment, because they would put it away wrong, and she had a system that she would get around to if the world could just stop spinning for two seconds. It was embarrassing, it was what a crazy person does, she hides her face in her hands when she thinks about it. She put a sticky note, one of Tom’s, on her own mug. Just to pretend. Just to imagine she’s not a venomous bitch for a little while. It was old, and the glue on the back had lost its stick. She kept trying to press it on, trying to make it hold, but it refused to, because it wasn’t supposed to be there, no one gives themself a love note.  _ I love you! _ When she threw the mug at the cabinet, it shattered. When she tried to pick it up, she cut her hand. She still didn’t throw the note away, she doesn’t even remember which one it was. When Tom saw the bandage wrapped around her palm, he asked if she was alright. He didn’t ask what happened. She’s not quite sure if she wanted him to or not. She knows she wouldn’t have told him.

Two days after moving back in, he left a note on her empty mug.  _ I love you, darling! _ She was glad that he wasn’t home when she found it. No one was home, and she still couldn’t cry, because she’s only allowed to cry when she’s angry, and she was so far from angry. That night, she slept in the guest bedroom with him. He held her, and she was very still, and she was very grateful that he pretended to be asleep when she told him, voice thick, that she missed him. She was even more grateful when he whispered  _ me too,  _ like he was telling her secrets again. Darling, when you don’t talk to me you’re screaming. That’s why silence makes me flinch.

The paper in front of her had nonsensical scribbles all over it. She wanted to give up, because you might not win if you quit, but you don’t lose, either. She knew she shouldn’t. She is trying to be good. She is going to be good. She opens her drawer and takes out a pad of sticky notes. Tom won’t be home for another hour at least. She will make him coffee. She will draw a small heart, and say  _ I love you, Tom, _ because she does. She likes him, too, but that feels too vulnerable to say. If Shiv doesn’t know how to bring it up, it won’t be brought. She won’t say this, but she missed him, when he left, whenever he leaves, while he’s gone right now, even though he’s coming home soon. She misses him the most when he asks if she wants him to come and she says “no.” She should not be this afraid of a man who will never hurt her. She should not be so afraid of telling the truth.  _ Nothing happened to you, Shiv, this is just what you are. I bet you wish you had an excuse. _ She wonders if she will tell her therapist about this, like the decision isn’t up to her. Nothing is ever my fault. Everything is my fault.

She writes,  _ You’re a good guy, Wambsgans. _ She throws it away. She writes,  _ Don’t take so long to come home next time. _ She throws it away. She takes a deep breath. He loves her, and she loves him, and they aren’t normal people but they are  _ people, _ and she is working on this. She writes,  _ Thank you, I love you _ and she will not throw it away. She will make coffee, decaf, so they can both sleep tonight.

-

She starts the coffee machine once Tom comes through the door.

“Hello, sweetheart,” he smiles at her, he comes back. He will always come back. Of course he will, he lives here, too.

“Hi,” she has to stand on her toes to reach up and kiss him. “How was it? How was… everyone?” She is not going to ask about Logan, because it makes them both sad.

“Bizarrely routine, actually. I kept feeling like Kendall was going to jump out from behind the office plants and yell ‘Punk’d!’ like that Ashton Kutcher show, do you remember that?” She nods, trying not to laugh. He is so goofy, so carelessly happy, that sometimes she doesn’t think he’s real, like he’s a cartoon character, or a Hallmark movie husband. He shrugs off his jacket. “Roman was a little checked out, Gerri’s on the warpath, Cyd is up to some new flavor of bullshit, but all in all, nothing special.” He slides his arms around her waist, and she lets him hold her. She is learning to relax. “What’s the news from your neck of the woods?”

“Nothing notable,” she smiles up at him. He tells her more about his day, skillfully avoiding any mentions of her dad, peppering in funny anecdotes. He  _ is _ a little like a movie character, the way he goes through life, so openly whimsical. She’s forgetting something. Right, the coffee. Shit, the note.  _ Fuck. _

It’s not a big deal. She could always chicken out. Tom is so much less scary when he is in front of her, big and warm and safe, smiling at her with all the love in his heart. She doesn’t  _ have _ to do anything. She puts the note on the cup, grabs her own, and goes over to him. She is so afraid of a fucking sticky note when she was supposed to write a letter. She elects not to think about it. 

When she hands it to him in faux-nonchalance, her hopes aren’t high. She expects a smile and a kiss, maybe a thank you, nothing big. She knows it isn’t worth even that, there is no way Tom could know she spent over an hour writing 5 words on a 3 by 3 inch square of paper. Even if she did, she shouldn’t be rewarded for it. Roys are, by definition, against the concept of an ‘A’ for effort. It doesn’t matter how much you care, only what you show for it. Love doesn’t matter if you die poor.

  
She isn’t necessarily surprised, however, when Tom’s big eyes well up with tears. She refuses to look directly at him, embarrassed for him, that uncensored display of emotionality. She runs her finger distractedly around the rim of her mug, leaning against the table like she has nothing better to do. She tries not to smile. She tries not to be annoyed. She tries not to want him to like her so badly. She doesn’t look at him when she hears him put down his cup, and she closes her eyes when he wraps her arms around her. She smiles when he presses a kiss to the crown of her head. His voice is thick with emotion when he tells her “thank you.” She stays quiet, because she knows he doesn’t need anything more from her. She will have to wait if she wants her hair to grow back. She will have to wait if she wants to learn how to love. She will not have to wait for Tom. For so long she has been afraid of so much, of herself, of him, of her father, of her family, of the sky falling down and the ground opening up, but right now, she knows it’s good.  _ It’s all good, Shiv. Everything’s okay. _

**Author's Note:**

> hellooo tomshiv nation. livepoultryfreshkilled on tumblr. please talk to me! every comment makes my day!


End file.
